


Paint it Black

by SuperWhoLockianFangirl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Death, Episode Related, Episode Tag: Naka-Choko, Gen, Murder, Spoilers for s02e10: Naka-Choko, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 18:06:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1559309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperWhoLockianFangirl/pseuds/SuperWhoLockianFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will is evolving into something new--something darker than he ever imagined himself being. Freddie Lounds was in the exact wrong place, at the exact wrong time, and did the exact wrong thing. Lucky her, she gets to witness Will's evolution first-hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint it Black

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this very quickly. It--well it had to be written otherwise I wouldn't sleep. I haven't written anything like this in a very long while so I hope it's enjoyable.
> 
> Title is from "Paint it Black" by the Rolling Stones.

_I look inside myself and see my heart is black  
_ **“Paint it Black” – The Rolling Stones**

 

The impact reverberates up your spine as the car window shatters all around you. She’s a fighter—not that you expected differently—and her hands claw at you when you reach in and yank her out, your fingers twisting in that bright red mane. She’s screaming now and that should probably bother you, but it doesn’t. It drowns out the sound of your heart racing inside of your chest.

The cold air is frigid around you and your chest is heaving with the effort as you pull her onto the snow and she continues struggling—screaming and screeching. Finally your hands find purchase on her mouth and silence her cries and there is a heavy sort of silence in the air.

Your hands are steady. A familiar feeling is building inside of you as you force her toward the shed that she so recently broke into. Her limbs are flailing and she’s still trying to scratch at you—futilely. Nothing is going to save her now.

“I just wanted to talk to you,”

For a moment you wonder who spoke and then realize that it was you. You didn’t mean to say anything and it doesn’t sound like you at all—it’s distant and calculated and it sounds far more like _him_ than you.

(but _he’s_ who you are now, isn’t that right)

(you’re turning into _him_ no matter how you deny it)

“Why did you have to complicate things by running?”

She has given up trying to pry your hands from her mouth, but she is still kicking with all her might and you shove her roughly against the doors of the shed, pressing her body into the wood. You can feel the heat of her through your own heavy coat and if you listen carefully enough you swear you can hear the sound of her blood racing through her veins.

(oh god it’s getting warm and you can’t breathe but your hands are still so steady)

(why are they so steady)

Her hands are scrabbling for something to hit you with, clawing at the door as if she can find some weapon hidden inside. It makes you smile and the expression sits oddly on your face. It feels stretched and twisted and wrong.

(but right so right oh god so right)

With a simple twist you have your hands wrapped around her neck, fingers tangling in those thick curls from behind. A sharp jerk slams her head into the wood. Once. Twice. Three times.

Her limbs still and you let her drop, breathing deeply. Your lungs feel clear again and you realize that you’re still smiling.

Easily, you kick the door open and drag her inside. Dimly, you recall the glow of a cell phone. Some far away part of your brain reminds you that this is all going to have to be cleaned up and quickly. But no thinking about that now—now is time to bask in the feeling. Later is when you’ll deal with the details.

She’s light as you carry her body in—lighter than Randall Tier was at least. Her limp body is easy to maneuver and your mind is already whirring faster than you can move, thinking of what to do. You can’t keep her alive and you can’t let anyone find her body. She’s too high profile. You cast your eyes around for an idea as you settle her against the dirty floor.

(she looks like a doll her skin is so pale)

(cheeks are still flushed from the panic)

(oh god the smell of her fear is everywhere)

You remember how it felt before—fists landing heavy blows against the hard skull, soft skin bruising and tearing beneath your knuckles. There was blood on your hands and on your face and it felt like you had just woken up from the longest sleep of your life. Everything was so clear and so vivid—like you suddenly had high definition vision.

(make it intimate)

(feel alive again)

You make your decision and turn your attention back to her.

She’s still breathing—shallow and slow, her breath heating up the freezing air around you. This doesn’t feel like before. You don’t see _him_ as you kneel over her body. You don’t see anything except her and her rosy cheeks and too-red hair. Reaching out, you touch her face softly, thinking for a moment.

If she weren’t such a vile person underneath it all she could probably be beautiful. But you know, _you know_ , what lies beneath her skin and it’s rotten and detestable and she is barely human. Really, you’re doing the world a favor. It’s not as if you have a choice—she has to die. You have to kill her.

Her eyes are fluttering and that is when you make your move. Just as you catch a glimpse of those bright eyes—groggy but filled with terror—you make your move.

In a flash you are on top of her and your gloved hands are around her throat, squeezing and twisting. You can feel the muscles moving in your grip and her body starts to jerk again, fighting for life. Clinging to her breath with all that she has.

You squeeze harder.

Her eyes bulge from her skull and it’s almost comical. The fear there makes your heart sing—you can feel it. You can almost taste it and it’s the most beautiful thing that you have ever seen in your entire life. It’s like a work of art.

Her gasps die away and you hold on tight, riding out her death throes as her body begins to spasm and twist underneath you. That euphoric feeling is back and everything is loud and bright and beautiful and you wonder how you went so long without realizing how freeing this is.

(not supposed to enjoy it)

(wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong)

(but it feels so good)

(so good so good so good so good)

She’s still. It takes a moment for you to let go and you lean back, breathing heavily. You close your eyes and let the feeling wash over you. It feels as good as before. You imagined that it wouldn’t—that the feeling would never be as good as the first time—but you were wrong. Your blood is singing and you’re riding a high that should be impossible.

(what is wrong with you)

(you’re not a monster)

(yes you are)

 

Finally allowing yourself to stand and open your eyes, you spot the knife you usually use to gut your catch after a day of fishing. You think of _him_ and remember his face when you presented Randall’s body to him.

(so proud of you)

(it was disgusting)

(you liked it)

(you want him to look at you like that again)

(you should thank him)

The knife is large and well-used and you can wield it with expertise. It seems perfect and you reach for it before your mind as consciously made the decision. Moving back over to her body, you stand there and watch her. She’s paler in death than she was in life, but otherwise she looks so much the same. If it were not for the bruises around her throat you might have said she was sleeping.

You’ve never done this before and you hesitate, wondering where to cut. For a moment—just a moment—your hands shake. But then you close your eyes and you imagine you are _him_. It’s easier than it ever was before. You feel yourself slip into _his_ mind like a second skin and you wonder at how comfortable it feels.

(should be more difficult)

The knife surer in your fingers, you kneel at her side again and begin cutting. There is a lot of blood and it stains the dirty floor and your clothes.

(so much mess)

( _he_ probably doesn’t make this much mess)

(you should ask for help next time)

(no no no)

(there will be no next time)

(yes there will)

Once you’re satisfied with your cut, you wrap it and store in carefully before beginning the tedious task of cleaning up the mess. Your arms are tired and you can feel your mind slipping away into that warm, dark place where everything feels good. You can’t go there yet, though, first you have to make sure everything here is taken care of.

And tomorrow you have a gift to deliver.

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written in second person in years so I'm probably rusty. Please feel free to yell at me about any errors.
> 
> All mistakes are my own. Comments and critques are welcome!


End file.
